


this should be yours and mine

by icicaille



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baseball, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 02:36:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4546914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille/pseuds/icicaille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The first thing Valjean notices, when he enters the locker room, is Javert scowling at his phone. Which isn't a particularly unusual sight, obviously, but he's perched atop one of the rickety wooden stools, scrolling furiously with his thumbs and muttering something about dirty union reps, and it's not exactly what Valjean had anticipated during his long walk through the stadium tunnels.</i>
</p><p>(Or, That Baseball AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	this should be yours and mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carnival_papers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnival_papers/gifts).



> This is kind of an in medias res snippet of a larger baseball AU that probably will never get written, so apologies if anything is unclear. 
> 
> Please consult [these photos](http://raminkarimloodaily.tumblr.com/post/125370244168/the-baseball-series) for visual inspiration.

The first thing Valjean notices, when he enters the locker room, is Javert scowling at his phone. Which isn't a particularly unusual sight, obviously, but he's perched atop one of the rickety wooden stools, scrolling furiously with his thumbs and muttering something about dirty union reps, and it's not exactly what Valjean had anticipated during his long walk through the stadium tunnels.

"Hi," he says, without preamble.

"What?" Javert says distractedly, punching in some string of characters on his screen.

Valjean clears his throat. "Uh. Hi?"

Javert finally looks up, and his eyes widen. "Oh, shit," he says. "Sorry. Hi." He gestures at Valjean to sit. 

"Thanks for sticking around," Valjean says, taking the stool next to Javert's. He surveys the empty locker room; it looks like everyone else packed up and left a while ago. "How long have you been waiting?"

Javert shrugs. "About forty minutes, give or take."

"Oh, jeez, I'm sorry—" Valjean starts to say, frowning.

Javert points at his phone, which buzzes tremulously every few seconds, and shakes his head. "I had a bunch of emails to respond to anyway. Pending litigation from the federal government and all. It's fine, really."

Valjean sighs anyway, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry, though. I didn't realize I would be so long. Some kids asked me to sign their gloves after the game, and then Fauchelevent wanted me to do some extra stretching to cool down, and _then_ that reporter from Sports Illustrated wanted to talk—"

"Wait a second," Javert says, squinting. He looks suspicious, which is never a good sign. " _Which_ reporter from Sports Illustrated?"

"The one who called me a few weeks ago about doing that cover feature, remember?" Valjean says. "But it turns out he wants me to pose naked for the pictures. With a glove or bat or something in front of—you know." He wrinkles his nose. "Along the lines of that Prince Fielder shoot ESPN did last year, I guess." Javert looks like he might go full-on apoplectic, then, so Valjean adds quickly, "I said no, though. Told him I wasn't interested."

"Well, uh…" Javert coughs. "Well, good." He tucks his phone away in his jacket pocket. "I mean, the ethics of our favorite family-friendly player appearing nude in the national press aside, don't you think you've gotten enough incendiary media coverage for one lifetime?"

"Yeah," Valjean says, remembering the headlines and the questions and the tearful testimonials on TV from all those kids who felt _so betrayed_. Ten years later, and he still sees the flashbulbs pop when he closes his eyes. "Yeah, I think so."

They're quiet for a while. Then Javert says, stammering a little, "But that's, uh, not to say that I wouldn't mind seeing that image in private."

"Right," Valjean says. He knows he's almost certainly blushing. "Maybe later." It's still kind of weird, hearing this stuff come out of Javert's mouth. Sometimes he can't believe it's happening right in front of him, that he's actually talking about getting naked with the guy who once demanded his permanent expulsion from the league.

When they first met a decade ago—Valjean was chasing international stardom and his first MVP title at 25, Javert was an assistant in the MLB's legal affairs division fresh out of college—he'd dismissed Javert as an uptight number-cruncher, the kind of person who gleefully doled out the bureaucratic red tape but was probably pretty decent and moral deep down. Then Javert made his life hell for the next ten years once the steroids scandal broke, and Valjean started thinking of him as a real pain in the ass. He'd done his time, paid for his sins—the asterisk next to his name in the record books took care of that—but Javert had never let it go. As if the demotion to a Double-A team in Oklahoma wasn't punishment enough.

This thing between them only picked up speed last spring, when Javert started spending a lot of time hanging around the Tulsa Mudcats locker room to verify labor standards or whatever other legalese he'd spouted. Valjean had known, of course, that it was all a pretense to catch him in the act again. Privately he'd agreed when Javert had accused him of irreparably besmirching the good name of Major League Baseball—he still lies in bed at night, sleepless, wondering why he'd ever done it, wondering if he even deserves to play ball anymore—but it was mildly irritating to be greeted by Twenty Questions every time he set foot in the locker room.

He'd never stopped believing Javert was decent and moral, though, which might be why they're currently sleeping together. And possibly dating, Valjean's not exactly sure.

It's nice—it's _really_ nice, actually, and surprising how well they get along when Javert isn't trying to demolish his career—but Valjean still has a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that Javert doesn't hate him. Something changed after Javert tried to resign from the league six months ago—Valjean remembers getting a call at 2am from an unlisted number, picking it up to find Javert drunk and hysterical on the other end—and since then Javert's been pretty nice to him. Talks a lot about how much he respects and admires Valjean, which no one has said to Valjean in a very long time. Still, sometimes he just wants to grab Javert by that dull grey tie he wears every single day without fail and shake him and ask him why, _why_ , he would ever be interested in all this—Valjean knows he's hardly a great catch, after all. But he hears Coach Myriel's voice in his head whenever these thoughts start to weigh him down, saying, "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Jean," just like he did once, a decade ago, the night he found Valjean on his doorstep. So Valjean really has no choice but to resign himself to the strange, unbelievable reality of Javert in his life.

Javert will probably offer to take him to dinner after they get out of here, which means they're fair game for the public eye now. They've already eaten out together a bunch of times and no paps have surfaced so far, but Valjean isn't sure if he can handle another scandal, even a minor one. He doesn't want to "come out," whatever that might entail, and he doesn't want his photo in the papers, either; all he wants is to be left alone and let this thing with Javert play out. Maybe he'll suggest getting room service in the hotel tonight instead, being content with Chinese food and old Law & Order reruns. Taking things slow—that seems like the best option for now.

"I'm gonna go shower and then we can head out, okay?" Valjean says, beginning to unbutton his jersey when Javert nods in response. He strips it off and tosses it in the laundry cart across the room, then unbuckles his belt and steps out of his uniform pants, his cleats and socks. When he grabs a towel from his locker and heads towards the showers, he sees Javert stand up out of the corner of his eye.

"Do you want any company in there?" Javert asks, hands on his hips.

Valjean nearly drops his towel. "Um," he says. "Like, just standing in the doorway? Or taking a shower with me?"

"I mean, you look pretty dirty," Javert says, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe I could help you wash."

Valjean blanches. This feels risky—wrong, almost. They've only ever slept together in hotel rooms, and once at Javert's place when the Mudcats were playing in Staten Island, but this is the team locker room, for God's sake. A public place. Anyone could walk in. The thought terrifies Valjean, and he doesn't even want to envision the debacle that would ensue if they were caught, but Javert is staring at him with a kind of hunger in his eyes, like he's the only thing in the room, and Valjean feels so—wanted. He's never felt that way before. "Yeah," he says, swallowing hard. "Okay."

Suddenly Javert is pushing him up against the locker—which clangs shut way too loudly for Valjean's tastes—kissing him hard. When he runs a hand down Valjean's chest, brushing over a nipple, tracing over the muscles of his stomach, Valjean bites back a moan, and figures there are maybe worse things one could get up to in a locker room. 

"Come on, then," Javert murmurs, hooking a finger under the waistband of Valjean's briefs.

Valjean takes his hand and leads him to the showers. They kiss all the while—Javert nearly trips over a stool on the way—and once they reach the doorway, Javert pauses to remove his suit jacket. He hangs it up over the towel rack, then lets Valjean deal with his tie and the buckle of his belt.

Valjean knows Javert doesn't wear designer stuff—couldn't it afford it, anyway—but somehow Javert always manages to look immaculate. Prim and proper, that's Valjean's abiding mental image of the man. He can't imagine Javert without perfect creases in his suit trousers, and he's seen Javert's closet, too, stocked with endless hangers of impeccably starched white shirts.

So he's a little surprised when Javert mutters, "Goddamn it," struggling to fold his trousers precisely along the crease while unbuttoning his shirt with one hand and touching Valjean with the other, and finally, unceremoniously, drops them to the floor.

"Need any help with that?" Valjean asks, dubious, pulling off his own briefs. Javert, careless with his clothing—this is unprecedented. He must be losing his mind. 

"Nope," Javert grinds out. He wrenches his shirt over his head, grabs the tie and belt from Valjean's hands, and tosses them all on top of his trousers.

Valjean takes a long look at the pile, which is definitely going to wrinkle and maybe even get a little damp from the spray. "You sure?"

Javert kisses him. "Forget it," he says, biting Valjean's lip as he pulls away. "Not important." Then, bringing their mouths together again, he steers them towards the closest shower head.

They're still kissing when Valjean's back collides with the "on" knob, and they both yelp when they're immediately drenched with a cascade of freezing water. Javert releases him and fiddles with the temperature dial, shivering and breathing " _shit shit shit_ " as the water doesn't let up—Valjean is used to it; ice-cold showers are a blessing after spring training practices in Florida—and eventually hits on a bearable setting.

"Right," Javert says, stepping back into the spray. "Where were we?"

Valjean closes his eyes, loses himself in the heat of the water for a moment, how it soothes the ache of his muscles. Then he looks down the stretch of tiled wall, open and uncovered, and feels a ball of nerves settle like a leaden weight in his stomach. "Are you sure?" he says, trying to keep his voice steady. "I don't know if the maintenance crew is scheduled to come in tonight, or—"

Then Javert sinks to his knees in front of Valjean.

"Oh," Valjean says. He's never gotten—this outside of the bedroom before. It still scares him a little—maybe even a lot—but he's hard, unexpectedly, and Javert is fixing him with that same look of hunger, of wanting, that is exceedingly hard to resist.

"Good?" Javert asks, looking up at him, mouth hovering over the tip of Valjean's cock.

"Good," Valjean replies shakily. Then he moans, unbidden, when Javert's tongue suddenly darts out and traces a circle around the head of his cock.

It's scarcely been, what, thirty-six hours since Javert did this last, and still Valjean can't get enough. Sometimes he has trouble believing he's this desperate for physical contact after years of contentedly being alone, but so what? He's only human, which is a fact he's just started to process with Javert around. Before that, it was eat, sleep, baseball. Repeat every spring.

Now, when Javert gets on his knees for him, it's nothing short of a miracle—that they can be here together, like this, after circling around each other for so long. He brushes Javert's wet hair away from his forehead, smoothes his thumb down Javert's cheek, resists the urge to say something cheesy.

Javert shuffles closer and slides a hand down Valjean's cock, pulling off briefly to smear his thumb in the slickness around the tip and drag it down along the length. He wraps his fingers around the base of Valjean's cock and starts to work them up and down, slowly, in tandem with the movements of his mouth. His lips are so soft around Valjean, his tongue is so wet and hot, that Valjean is afraid he's going to finish right then and there. He bucks up into Javert's mouth, mutters, "God, sorry," when Javert pulls away, choking.

But Javert only grins at him and redoubles the rhythm of his hand, pumping Valjean's cock even faster. He licks a stripe up from base to tip, pushing the flat of his tongue against the underside, letting it lie there for what feels like an eternity while Valjean moans again, long and loud. He'd never thought Javert could be such a tease.

The sensation of Javert's tongue on his cock is so good that Valjean hardly notices the finger reaching back to rub fleetingly at the seam behind his balls. Then Javert is pushing the finger _in_ , and the pressure is so overwhelming, so filling, that Valjean can't help but arch up into it, panting when Javert pins his thumb against Valjean's thigh and starts rocking his finger slowly, in and out. Trapped between the agony and the ecstasy of Javert's mouth around him and Javert's finger in him, Valjean feels like he might just die right here, in the godforsaken Tulsa Mudcats locker room showers. It would make for an interesting headline, at least. 

When Javert crooks his finger sharply, lips sliding over Valjean's cock still, and hits something just _there_ , Valjean nearly shouts. 

"I'm going to come," he gasps, on some inexplicable impulse, after Javert twists his finger again. He's ashamed as soon as the words leave him—he's never said something so filthy before, not even in his own mind—but Javert immediately moans around his cock, swallowing it deep, throat contracting, and the vibration resounds through Valjean's whole body. 

Valjean reaches out blindly, tangles a hand in Javert's hair—his muscles all seize up and slacken at once and then he's coming, finally, streaming into Javert's mouth. He tries to watch the workings of Javert's throat as he swallows, but his knees abruptly buckle and he falls back against the wall with a dull thud. 

The shower hasn't turned off yet, and Valjean wants to relax into the warmth, but figures he should reciprocate first. He's about to move when he sees Javert put a hand on himself, stroking quickly, desperately, eyes pinned to Valjean, like the sight of him is all he needs to come; Valjean hears him mumble something over and over that sounds like "Valjean." Soon Javert's breath catches and his hand moves even faster. He looks like he's going to finish pretty soon, so Valjean lays a hand on his arm, gently.

"Hey," he says. "Can I, uh—" He inclines his head downwards, where Javert's fingers skate across his cock.

"Sorry," Javert manages to say. "I thought you were, you know. Tired." He lifts his fingers off, clenches them into a fist. "I'm close anyway, don't worry about it."

Valjean reaches down, closes his hand around Javert's cock, palm brushing across the tip of it. "Let me," he says, leaning their foreheads together.

It doesn't take much to finish Javert off, just a few long, hard pulls and the drag of a fingernail down the length of his cock. Valjean kisses him when it happens, lets Javert gasp into his mouth; he feels the spurt of something wet against his stomach, hears the rasp of his hand against Javert's cock fade as his strokes ease up. 

Javert slumps against him after a moment, face buried in the crook of his neck. He's limp in Valjean's arms, boneless, but Valjean doesn't mind the load, with his back flat against the wall; he likes the feeling of Javert pressed against every part of him, their bodies contiguous, unsure where he ends and Javert begins. 

They rest there together, not speaking, hardly breathing, until Javert breaks the silence. 

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Valjean says, tilting his head back. He always gets a little nervous when Javert starts asking questions—old habits die hard, apparently—but he's exhausted and Javert's face is warm against his shoulder.

"How would you feel about—uh," Javert says, muffled. "Making this thing official sometime? Being exclusive, dating, whatever people are calling it these days, you know." He pulls back and locks his eyes somewhere in the vicinity of Valjean's right foot.

Valjean freezes. That was certainly not at the top of the list of things he'd expected. "Oh," he says, turning it over in his mind. He hasn't dated anyone since his rookie days, when girls were foisted on them left and right and he didn't exactly have a choice. And now Javert, of all people. "Why?"

Javert pales. "Uh—"

Valjean immediately realizes this might makes things awkward, so he says, all in a rush, "Sorry, you don't have to answer that. It's okay." Social niceties have never been his forte, clearly.

"No," Javert says, holding up a hand. "You should know." He sucks in a long breath. "I like you. A lot. I don't know if you like me that much, or _why_ you would, frankly, considering the shit I've done to you, but if you do, then maybe it might be nice. Good for us." He meets Valjean's gaze evenly, then. "I think we're good together."

Valjean imagines introducing Javert at team parties, calling Javert with the news of his impending trade to the majors before he tells anyone else, letting Javert kiss his hair and reassure him that he's not a total screw-up after a bad game. Letting Javert be there for him.

"Yeah," Valjean finds himself saying. "I'd like that." He's surprised by the ineffable sense of relief that wells up inside him. "And I like you, too, for the record." He smiles. "Maybe even a lot."

"Well, okay, then," Javert says, looking equally relieved, and kisses him.

When they break apart, Valjean can see Javert trying hard not to smile. He wants to laugh, but Javert smiling is such a rare thing that he can't spoil it. "Dinner tonight at Andolini's after I _actually_ get cleaned up?" he asks instead, pressing his lips to Javert's jaw. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing, being seen together.

"I think my suit is probably ruined," Javert sighs, nodding at the sodden heap in the corner, "but yes."

Valjean shakes his head, laughing. "I was getting a little worried about you back there—or your suit, I should say. Thought the world might be ending."

"I already told you," Javert says, "you're more important." He skims a hand across the expanse of Valjean's back and kisses him once more, then turns to the doorway to collect the remains of his suit. Watching Javert go, marveling at the memory of Javert's hands lingering on his skin, Valjean can't help feeling like maybe, _maybe_ , this might be the start of something good.


End file.
